


The Fog is Rising

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bastardized Mythology, F/M, Fog, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Minor Original Character(s), Mysterious Weather, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Harry Potter, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Visions and Flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 10:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Ginny Weasley was twenty-four-years-old, and her hair was too long. She hated her brown eyes and she hated her freckles.And she hated the panic that regularly gripped her soul. Mysterious fog and an equally mysterious boy will either solve everything or change the problem completely.We must go in. The fog is rising.





	1. Chapter 1

_“I must go in, for the fog is rising.”_

-The last words of Emily Dickinson  


The wind blew viciously up here and it hurt just a tiny bit. It was sheer perfection. Her hair had grown long, and she hadn't really noticed, given that it was usually twisted into a complicated plait so it didn't get in the way beneath her goggles. She hadn't paused to tie it back this afternoon, and it was blowing wildly around her, occasionally whipping her across the face with stinging force. She'd have to see about a solid chop off.

She hadn't paused to tie her hair back for the same reason that she hadn't paused to check that the broom was hers – which, incidentally, it was not, although the team brooms were all of decent enough quality. She also hadn't stopped to put on britches, or grab practice balls, or check that the pitch was even free, because she'd been far too close to an all-out meltdown. The type she didn’t want the team to see.

They didn't, because she was used to fleeing. The last thing they saw was her anger. That was well-orchestrated, well-practised.

She didn’t have to hear them to know what they’d say:

 _Oh don't mind her,_ they'd chuckle to themselves, _you know what they say about redheads._

She supposed that there was no reason to keep flying now that she was calmer. She tested a grin to see if she could pull it off, and when it felt convincing enough, she pushed the broom forward to dangerous speeds and did six more laps before dragging back and heading down. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes hurt, and she was pretty sure it was going to take twenty minutes of warm water to regain feeling in her hands.

But at least she was breathing normally again.

She remembered, from a long forgotten conversation, how Harry hadn't gone for professional Quidditch because he didn't want the flying to turn into a chore. She hadn't understood then, and now, five years on the team, with gruelling practices and long seasons on the road, she still didn't.

Flying never felt like a chore. Flying was always safety and control, freedom and containment, all at once. When she was flying nothing touched her. The roar of the wind drowned out her thoughts, and her attention was kept by the quaffle, meaning it couldn't settle on anything else for long. Even during practise, she was constantly on high alert; Henrietta had them constantly switching positions, which Ginny had thought was stupid until she had learned a few tricks while playing Beater that had saved a game or two.

Ginny Weasley was twenty-four-years-old, and her hair was too long. She was trim and tall, despite too much beer round the pub, and shitty food while on the road. She hated her brown eyes and she hated her freckles.

And she hated the panic that regularly gripped her soul and robbed her of the ability to think or feel or breathe.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Being the youngest of too many children certainly had its ups and downs. Advantages included being the only girl, never blamed for anything (even she knew that one was true), and always getting the best gifts at Christmas because of parental guilt.

Disadvantages were definitely hand-me-downs. And this.

Eleven-year-old Ginny was as wide-eyed as every other eleven-year-old standing on the platform, but no one quite took the time to notice or offer words of encouragement. Her Mum and Dad were honestly not to blame, having been through this a total of five times already. It hardly held any mystery for them. They could be forgiven for not noticing that their only daughter was slightly terrified.

It hadn’t taken long for her to start dragging her feel, to fall behind. The boys had disappeared immediately, running ahead; Fred and George jostling for attention as always. Ron and Harry are actually completely missing, disappeared as soon as they’d stepped out of the car. Bill was there, somewhere, for some reason, but she'd quite lost sight of him, and he'd be of no help anyway. She gulped again, clutching her trolley a little tighter.

She hadn't been prepared for being nervous. She'd been on the platform every year since she could remember. She knew what the departure looked like, chaotic and loud. She was excited for Hogwarts, too; finally, she would see what all the fuss was about. The boys had been tormenting her and Ron for years, and last year had been a long one, being the only one at home. Stupid baby sister problems. She took a deep breath.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She strode forward to catch up with her parents. Molly smiled down at her as she stepped in line.

“Alright, love?” she said, petting Ginny's hair.

“Course, mum,” Ginny replied, a smile of her own.

And she was. She was going to be alright.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

As her feet touched the ground, Ginny could already sense Miranda's heavy stride heading in her direction. She grimaced. For the most part, this team was much better than last year, skill-wise, but she and Miranda hadn't quite worked out how to deal with each other yet. Right now, it was more dragons circling each other than respectful sportsmanship and Ginny was not going to put up with it much longer. It was exhausting.

“Weasley, want to tell me why exactly you are on my _fucking_ broom?”

Of bloody course. She looked down and saw the bright gold ‘Avery’ stamped across the back of the handle.

“Look, Avery, I'm sorry. Won't happen again,” she said calmly.

Miranda wasn't convinced, crossing her arms and staring daggers at her.

“Why'd it happen now?” she challenged.

“Accident,” Ginny groundout. “Just grabbed one and left.”

“You gotta learn how to control that temper of yours, Weasley,” she taunted.

Ginny took a deep breath and refused to react. She'd just calmed down. She would not get in a tizzy over Miranda Avery, whose family origins were dubious at best. Even if the three year age difference meant she'd been nowhere near the battle, it still seemed questionable to Ginny that Miranda was a ‘Muggle-born’. Sacred Twenty-eight names didn't just disappear.

Ginny paused a moment, counting silently to keep hold of her temper. “Said I was sorry, Miranda. Going to shower. I'll polish it up after.” She wearily ran a hand over her face.

Miranda watched her for a moment, then reached out and snatched her broom back, growling ‘I'll do it’, before storming away.

Ginny shook her head. Whatever. She couldn't be friends with everyone.

Standing under the hot water fifteen minutes later, it happened. One moment, she was revelling in the steadily pounding stream she had charmed to attack her with an almost painful pummel of pressure. The next, a grey hand was reaching out from the faucet, the taps dripping an inky black grease, and the light in the showers had gone gloomy and green. She was screaming and scrambling backwards before her conscious brain had time to catch up.

She heard his voice, whispering her name. Always just her name, before she passed out.

She woke up on a physio table in the training room, wrapped in a robe, with two equally unimpressed faces standing over her.

“Thanks for having the decency to be alive, Weasley,” Miranda said icily.

Ginny's throat hurt, and the light felt bright and hard.

“You're lucky Miranda was here, Weasley,” Henrietta grimaced, leaning towards her and scanning her wand, held out in a shimmering blue light. “That's the third time this month. Care to explain?"

Ginny swallowed, “I'm sorry, Spear, I've been a bit stressed and tired, and–”

But on seeing the look on her captain's face, Ginny fell silent. Henrietta had already decided whatever it was she was going to do. She was not a woman to change her mind.

“Yes, Well,” Spear said, arching an eyebrow. “I'm suspending you.”

“What?! No. Spear. Henri. Please, don't. I promise I'll–”

“Ginny,” Henrietta said gently. “I thought you'd been seeing someone.”

Ginny felt her dumb, pale, ginger skin betray her instantly as her cheeks heated embarrassingly.

“I am. I was. The year…the season gets…”

“Busy,” Henri finished. “I know. But listen, Ginny. It's early in the season, exhibition games and nothing serious. It won't impact your stats if you take some time now. It's the best option available. I can't… I can't have you in the air. You could hurt yourself. Or someone else.”

Ginny nodded. There was no point explaining that it never happened in the air.

Henrietta nodded, “Six weeks. Go, see someone.”

Miranda was standing further away, staring at the ceiling. Ginny felt an odd surge of gratitude eat through her animosity. Miranda may be a royal pain in the arse, but she was a teammate. She was still an ally.

Ginny sighed. There was no getting around this, and she was honestly too tired to try.

Henri patted her hand and said, “It's okay, Weasley. Sometimes, we all need to just take a collective breather.”

“Sure,” Ginny said, swinging her legs off the bed and sitting up. “I get it.”

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Hogwarts was not what she'd been sold. It was really just _school_ , in an old and supremely creepy building. People liked to just glaze over the fact that there were dark creatures in the forest, whose cries and howls you could hear at night, especially sleeping in a tower as the Gryffindors did. No one talked about the fact that that the staircases sometimes led you to passages and corridors that were both abandoned and definitely dangerous. They liked to ignore the fact that the ghosts were occasionally volatile and mean, or that there were a number of deadly school supplies in every classroom.

It's not that she was scared, not in the simple sense of the word. She _was_ a Gryffindor. And a Weasley. And the baby sister of seven mischievous brothers. Ginny Weasley did not scare easily. Her skin was tougher than that.

But the castle did _unsettle_ her significantly more than she'd been anticipating. The way the boys went on, she'd expected to feel at home the second she crossed the threshold. That hadn't happened.

When you added to it that she was really only good at Potions, where Professor Snape was confusingly lenient with her, even helpful for some reason, despite the reputation that preceded him. Technically, she was good at Charms too, but that was because Charlie had sneakily been teaching her for years. Without a wand, and growing up in a magical household, the underage magic department usually turned a blind eye to simple stuff.

She refused to acknowledge that part of her discomfort might have been loneliness, and yet, deep down, that was definitely the problem. It had always been an issue, really, that she and Ron were so close in age. Now that she was here, sharing a common room with him again, he seemed to have decided that it was time to up his teasing, increase his tormenting, attempt to banish her from speaking to his friends.

It’s not that she didn’t have friends; she did, and she fit in just fine in classes. At night, though, when she got back to the common room, she found herself exhausted by the gossip of the other girls, but also by the immature pranks and games of the boys. Some evenings, she would wander around for a few hours after dinner, trying to avoid people. Of course, that’s how she’d managed to meet Michael, and Luna, and they were good friends.

Still. Finding that diary in her transfiguration book had been a wonderful thing. Not only did she have somewhere she could write, but she hadn’t had to go and buy it herself, risking the torment of her brothers.

The first night she’d put quill to paper, it had been a particularly bad day. Fred had made some snarky remark about her being ‘pointlessly feisty’, and Ron had taken her last roll of parchment without asking. She’d spilt a whole jar of beetle wings in Potions, and had forgotten to finish her essay on the principal laws for Charms. Dinner had been exhausting, so she’d huddled into a corner behind a tapestry and poured her soul onto a page.

Yes, Ginevra Molly Weasley was sharp and intelligent, brave and independent. She was strong and friendly. But, she was also eleven. And when a mysterious boy, whose writing had a friendly slant and whose words were a balm to every frustration she’d ever felt, Ginevra Molly Weasley became one of the most dangerous things for a preteen girl to be – enamoured.

For the next month, she ignored the little voice in the back of her mind. The one that told her just how dangerous it was to be interacting with a book. Ignored her father’s words, the ones she’d heard since she was very small. No, she couldn’t see where the diary’s brain was kept.

The problem was that she just didn’t care.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mum, I am _fine,_ ” she insisted for at least the seventeenth time, as Molly's glowing and humming wand jabbed into her side for at least the thirtieth.

“Well, until you explain to me exactly _why_ you are being given a leave at the very start of the season, I see no option but use the spells like you are actually three!” Molly shrilled, her tone very reminiscent of when they'd all been little.

Ginny sighed, “I told you, Captain Spear thinks I will play better later in the season if I take some time.” She squared her shoulders and tried to believe her own words as she continued, “I mean really, Mother, she's not wrong. Between this and the summers with the paper, I haven't had an hour to myself since leaving school.”

Molly was, predictably, unconvinced. Still, when Ginny glared at her, she tucked her wand away.

“Yes, fine. I've been saying for ages, but you seem happier when you are busy.”

 _Right now_ , Ginny thinks. _Right now is when you say ‘yes because when I'm busy, I don't have panic attacks. When I'm exhausted I don't have as many terrible nightmares’._

It would be almost seamless, to just explain.

“Mum,” she says, softening her tone and smiling reassuringly. “It's just a vacation. An oddly timed and mandated vacation. For the sake of my career.”

“Well,” Molly said, still dubious, but less frantic. “Alright. You should call Harry and–”

Ginny threw her hands up in the air, “MOTHER!”

She stormed her way out of the kitchen, up to her room. She'd taken Charlie and Percy's, since they were both gone and it was the biggest with the most light. Flopping down on the bed, she automatically picked up her roster sheet and stared at it for a few minutes before her brain registered that she didn't actually _need_ to know the roster for the week's games. And as she put it down, the weight of what had happened fully hit her in the chest. She put her hands over her face.

“Fuck,” she said to the empty room.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Second year was really where things went sour.

Molly wasn't at Hogwarts, to fret and fuss and make sure that Ginny was resolutely just dandy in order to avoid an excess of mothering. All summer, Ginny hadn't realised how much she was relying on that attention. It wasn't until she got off the train, standing on the platform in the pouring rain, that she remembered why everyone had been worried about her.

“Now remember,” Dad had said as she'd hugged him goodbye. “You have a meeting with Professor McGonagall every Tuesday evening. And Professor Flitwick has said–”

“That I can go to him at any time. I know, Dad. I know. I'm _fine._ Seriously, you have to keep Mum sane. Don't worry.”

The first time it happened, she wasn't asleep. That somehow made is a million times more terrifying. She'd been walking back from potions, trudging through the dungeon on her own. She'd stayed behind her class to finish up her Sunshine Elixir, largely out of curiosity about the finished colour, described as ‘a warm day on the beach’. It had been quite a lovely blue, like the sky in the middle of June, and she was pleased, but tired, and covered in bits of ipplepress tubers, which were starting to smell.

Suddenly, she looked up and heard it. A scraping, barely audible whisper.

_Ms Weasley. Ginny. You think you are safe with them? Oh, my Ginevra. How have they fooled you so?_

The voice kept humming her name, and suddenly the floor was wet, the walls dripping. There was a faint hissing that made her skin crawl. She couldn't breathe, and she felt herself pitch forward, constantly forward, without ever falling. Her face was frozen, the chill in her bones impervious to the warming charm she sent forward.

Suddenly, a different voice was calling her name.

“Miss Weasley? Miss Weasley! Are you alright.”

She focused on the direction of the voice, and the walls dried instantly. The floor was dry too, and she felt her knees on the cold stone. She _had_ fallen, at some point, and her hands were scraped.

She looked up to find the face of one of the Slytherin third years, she couldn't remember his name.

“I–I must have fainted,” Ginny mumbled.

“Well, let's get you to hospital wing then,” the boy soothed, lifting her under the arm. In the back of her mind, she was sure that, for some reason, she was meant to dislike this boy. His reassuring grip was at odds with his green tie and crest, but she was too weak to walk alone. She’d tried to protest, but when she opened her mouth, she was sick all over the poor boy’s trainers.

It had not been her finest moment.

He had just chuckled and helped her up to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey had been typically caring and gruff and made her stay overnight. When Professor McGonagall showed up with a knowing grimace on her face, Ginny had just mumbled about the flu but had not protested when McGonagall had settled into a chair beside her bed for the night.

She really hated the hospital wing.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Ginny jolted awake for a different reason than normal. There was a gentle, but insistent knocking at the door. She sighed blearily, unsure when exactly she'd fallen asleep. Answering the door, she sighed again, but an entirely different sort of sigh.

“Of course you're here,” she said sagging against the doorframe. “How long did it take her to call you? An hour? Two?”

Harry, bless him, looked dishevelled and bewildered as usual, and in spite of herself, she felt a tiny bit better to see him standing there. He held his hands up in protest and defence.

“I broke up with Ivy,” he stated quietly. “What's wrong with you that Molly should have called?”

“Oh,” she said, standing up again and pulling him into a warm and familiar embrace. “I'm sorry. You two seemed so… “

“Perfect,” he sighed. “Yeah, I know. I thought so too.”

“Come in.”

“Actually,” he said, shrugging sheepishly, “Do you mind if we…”

She grinned, “Beach or Forest?”

“Oh beach. Definitely beach.”

Armed with a picnic and brooms, they trudged down the damp sand on what was admittedly a gorgeous September day.

“All the kids head to Hogwarts today,” Harry said idly as they sat down.

“Hmmm,” she muttered back. “So they do. Feels like ages since we've had to care.”

“So, you ready to tell me yet, or am I going to just have to continue to pretend I'm patient.”

She smiled at him a moment before going serious. This wasn't her mother; when she told Harry this, he was going to immediately know the truth. He was going to connect all the dots that she'd been scattering far and wide in the hopes that no one, ever, was going to connect them. She took a deep breath.

“Sharp suspended me for six weeks,” she exhaled.

“What? Why!?” Harry said, defense of Ginny his first reaction, as per usual. “Was it that horrible Avery woman? Did you get in a fight? You haven't done that since your first season...and even if, six weeks seems a bit steep.”

“No, no fights,” she murmured, looking down at her legs, freckled from a summer of open-air flying and swimming and resting on the beach after her shift. “I've, er, been having episodes. After practice and stuff.”

“Ginny,” Harry breathed. “I thought you said they were getting better.”

“They were, for a while. But then…” she couldn't bear to finish the sentence.

“Are you still going to that therapist the Ministry–”

“Are you?” she snapped.

Harry fell silent for a moment, stretching out long and staring out at the surf. Finally, Ginny took a quiet breath.

“Sorry,” she said, nudging his arm. “Didn't mean that. What happened with you and Ivy.”

He looked at her carefully. “In a minute,” he sounded just the slightest bit annoyed with her. “Don't change the subject. Six weeks is a long time.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I have an appointment on Monday.”

“You need to take it seriously now, Ginny. I thought they'd stopped. You lied to me.”

“About a great many things, Harry,” she chirped, exasperated. They always ended up talking in circles like this. “I am tired of them, Harry. I promise I _am_ taking it seriously.”

“Well,” he said, studying her face. “Alright then. And you'll tell me if I can help? But actually tell me, not just say you will and then suffer in silence?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Ginevra,” he said in a warning tone.

“Don't call me that,” she glared. “And yes, fine, I promise, okay? Now. What happened with Ivy.”

“Same thing that always happens,” he cried dramatically, throwing himself back in the sand. “She got overwhelmed with the pressure of ‘dating Harry Potter’. Apparently, the final straw was someone taking her coffee cup out of the trash at the market because she'd touched it. Creeped her out. Then we got into a big row, in which she accused me of being in love with the fame and _encouraging the attention.”_

“What, seriously,” Ginny groaned. “You? You, who once threatened the life of a certain reporter?”

“Yes, well,” he said, picking at the blanket. “I'm angry, but it's worse because I'm actually mostly just fucking sad. I really liked her.”

“I know, Harry. I did too. When did this happen?”

“Wednesday,” he winced.

“Seriously? You arse. _Three days_? Have you eaten anything in the past three days three days? Have you showered? Three days,” she grumbled.

Harry just sniggered, and she threw a bread roll at him.

“Oh bloody, _stop_ ,” she yelped. “I know you're about to tell me I sound like my mother and it is _not_ appreciated.”

When he kept laughing at her silently, she finally ended up giggling a bit herself.

“We're a fine pair, aren't we now?” she said eventually.

“Always have been, Ginny. Always have been.”

With no Molly to make them wait the requisite twenty minutes, they flew into the air immediately after a hasty lunch. For an hour, they just flew in giant, looping circles, occasionally attempting to outdo one another with a fancy dive or feint, but really just aiming for height and speed. When Harry pulled a practice snitch from his pocket, she teased him momentarily for carrying it everywhere and then fought her hardest to beat him. He took the impromptu battle six to three, but he did offer her a gentle shoulder shake of congratulations when they landed.

“You’re much better at that then you used to be,” he said, throwing that sidelong smirk her way, the one that always unbalanced her a little bit. His hair was insane, knotted and twisted by the wind, and she could see the glint of exertion in his every pore. It was beautiful, and she felt her breath hitch. Stupid Harry Potter. This had always been the problem.

She couldn’t quite control her tone as she pulled her hair off her shoulders, whipping it into a ponytail with her wand, and muttering, “New training regimen.”

When she dared look back at Harry, he was looking at her in exactly the way she knew he would be. Hungry. A little unhinged. Definitely bad news. And like she was pure perfection; admiration in his eyes, mouth gaping slightly, unable to tear his gaze away from her neck.

The absolute Neanderthal. Predictable, terrifyingly easy to manipulate, Neanderthal.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

When she finally opened her eyes later, she found him watching her. She pulled the sheet up tighter to her chest, suddenly shivering. She spread a hand across his chest, stopping him as he moved to come closer.

“This,” she said as gently as she could. “We said this had to stop.”

And she could kill him, hex him, punch and kick and scream, as that same lazy grin that had led them _here_ reappeared on his face. The one that still made her stomach flutter, her heart clench tightly, even now that the passion had been sated and the urgency had been quenched.

“Oh, come on,” he whispered in the fuzzy closeness. “Give us some credit. It’s been _months_.”

She sighed, and felt the little mean spike in her flare to the surface as she replied, “Yes. About four months and seventeen days, wouldn’t you say? Wonder why that is.”

The words hit their mark, and the pain on Harry’s face didn’t quite register, didn’t quite break the barrier she had permanently constructed in between her face and her emotions. Harry rolled away from her, staring at the ceiling.

“You need to go before Mum notices,” she said bluntly, standing up and pulling a jumper over her head. “I don’t relish an evening of significant glances and—”

Harry cut her off with an exasperated growl, “Oh for the love of—the woman had seven children, Ginny. She is hardly _unaware_ of what activity adults engage in on occasion.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say when you don’t live at home still. When you aren’t the one who has to deal with the aftermath of ‘oh Ginny, what did you do there, he’s such a nice man, how did you end up scaring him off?’,” she said, pitching her voice high and shrill. “Please,” she said carefully. “Just get dressed.”

Harry growled again, but sat up and pulled on his jeans.

“You know,” he sneered, pulling on his t-shirt too. “This wouldn’t be such a big deal if you didn’t insist on treating me like the dirty mistress after.”

“Well, excuse me if I don’t want to be reminded, _yet again_ , that I am not dating enough for my ridiculous family’s liking!”

Harry looked at her from across the room, glowering and yet seeming like he was considering saying something else, which would definitely make everything worse. She knew that facial expression all too well, and she braced herself.

“Why aren’t you, huh?” he needled. “You used to love, dunno, dating, or whatever.”

He sounded miserable already. She assumed the tone was because he thought he knew how she was going to react. He thought she was going to explode in anger at him, freak out and tell him he had no right to question her like that, not anymore. He was wrong, but only because she was barely who she was anymore. She sat down on the edge of the bed, with a pillow in her lap, and laughed bitterly.

“Is that what it was, Harry?” she questioned, looking at him. “Dating or _whatever_?”

He looked over at her tentatively, obviously searching for the trap before sitting down, cross-legged, on the other side of the bed.

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, taking the olive branch in a surprisingly endearing moment of grace.

“I was a teenager, Harry. And pining after you, if you’ll recall,” she teased, whacking him with the pillow.

“And now?”

She stopped giggling as abruptly as she’d started, embarrassment colouring her cheeks again. She clutched the pillow tighter.

“I date...sometimes. It’s just…”

“Gin, it’s me,” he said, reaching out to pat her knee.

“They don’t stick around long,” she said, face twisting into a grimace that even _felt_ ugly and bitter.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, once they know. Once they see. Your average bloke, he doesn’t take very kindly to being strangled at night. Or having to leave a cinema because you’ve started screaming, or having the bathroom flood because you’re too paralysed with fear to turn off the faucet,” she whispered, staring a blank spot on the wall, somewhere off in the distant corners, always searching for signs that she wasn't really where she thought she was. Resolutely not meeting green eyes. Suddenly, she had a head in her lap, and Harry was staring at her with a goofy grin.

“Personally, my favourite was always the midnight flailing. It was the least physically damaging, and it gave us something in common,” he said, stroking her cheek with the back of a knuckle.

“Do you still have them?”

“Only the nightmares,” he admitted, as though he was ashamed. Which was ridiculous. No one deserved to have their nightmares enter the waking hours.

He didn't wait for her thoughts to catch up before he reaching and tucking hair behind her ear.

“I could come by tonight again?” he whispered. “Stay?”

She glared at him a moment, shaking her hair out again and swatting his hand away.

“Merlin's sake, Gin,” Harry laughed lightly. “Not like that. You know I didn't mean that. I just... We're still friends, no? You’re exhausted.”

She knew that he meant well. She still didn’t let her glare drop. She has to pretend to be mad because if she doesn't, it hurts too much. Too much in that place where it always hurts, the one that has been Harry shaped since the day she met him. The place that she nowadays fills up with wounded emotions and self-loathing.

“I mean, we both know I'm not going to say no,” she said, pushing him angrily off her lap. “Just be quiet coming back.”

She spent the evening eating dinner downstairs, followed by an hour or so pretending to read while her father tinkered with an old-fashioned toaster in the corner, and her mother studiously avoided conversation by fluttering about with a duster. Finally, she excused herself with a kiss to Arthur’s head and a hug around Molly’s middle. She trudged up the stairs like a man condemned. She was trying her best not to think of it this way, but she had had a good day, and that usually meant a bad night. At least, it had for the past few months.

Harry Apparated into the middle of her room a few minutes later, already wearing pyjamas and tripping a little on the landing.

He smiled a wolfish grin as he steadied himself.

“Woah,” he said, moving forward to sit on the edge of her bed. “Haven't had to do that since I was nineteen. Almost missed the landing.”

She smiled nostalgically as the memories cascaded onto her head. She yawned behind her hand as she muttered, “You never stick the landing, Harry Potter. Don’t kid yourself.”

He scoffed comically but settled down beside her, and she felt her body relax in spite of herself.

“Thanks for this, Harry. I...I just need—”

“You need to sleep. I remember. It’s okay, Ginny. You are safe, okay?”

“Sure,” she yawned. “Sure.”

She drifted off to sleep forcing herself to pretend everything was completely normal.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

The problem was simple. She was too hot. It was a problem millions upon millions of people encountered every night. Harry was a furnace, and she’d somehow forgotten. She’d gotten up and changed into lighter night things about two hours earlier, but there was still too much heat. Truthfully, the solution was simple too. She just needed to take off the blanket. No big deal.

Except that she was utterly paralyzed, muscles stuck in place, sweat inching down her forehead that had nothing to do with the temperature. In the corner, the dripping had started, and the walls were tormenting her with shadows, including the one that was huge and slithering. She opened her mouth to warn Harry, but at that moment, the hissing started, and her words turned to screams.

Harry jolted awake beside her, but he wasn’t him. His eyes were no longer green. His hair was no longer dark and curled against his neck. He wasn’t in his stupid dragon boxers and Wheezes t-shirt but instead sat beside her in an old-fashioned suit. He opened his mouth, looking at her in concern, but the words that came out unstuck her arms and legs.

_Ginny. Ginny Weasley, you clever girl. You know how to kill them, don’t you? Help me._

“Levicorpus!” she shouted, standing now and screaming with enough viciousness that it didn’t matter that her wand is still on the nightstand. She watched in satisfaction as the man across from her flew to the ceiling by the ankle.

One minute, she was staring gleefully at Tom Riddle hanging from his ankle, standing on damp tile in flickering torchlight. The next, the carpet had returned to beneath her feet, the walls had gone black in the country night, and Harry was shouting her name at her as he dangled upside down, his t-shirt hanging over his face as he struggled to stop sounding so panicked.

She quickly reversed the spell, backed away from the bed and sitting down abruptly against the other wall, her breathing ragged.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” she shouted, head in hands.

“Just breathe, Ginny. Breathe,” Harry was standing now, nowhere near her, well-practised guards raised, hands up in silent surrender, as though she was a wild animal.

The accuracy of his stance hit her square in the chest.

“Same one? Room was the Chamber?” he questioned. She nodded. “Where are your parents? You were screaming for a while.”

She tilted her head at him angrily, still breathing heavily.

“So silencing charms, I’m guessing. For a while?”

She just ducked her head again. She felt him sit down beside her. Felt him breathing, and existing, but was far too scared to look at him and discover that Harry was gone again. She leaned against him, and had never felt quite so weak as when he sighed and wrapped her in his arms.

“Gin, you are going to hate me, but…” he paused and she held her breath. “I’m taking you to Mungo’s. You know these get worse when you’re tired. And you can’t sleep. I had to go, last year. They can help.”

She stiffened under his arms. No one but him knew. No one knew the extent of how bad shit had gotten, and if she went to the hospital, they would all know. A tiny voice in the back of her mind argued that maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

“Now?” She whispered.

“I think that would be best, don’t you?” he said.

She had heard Harry mutter at baby Rose. Heard him console the parents of dead children. Heard him speak quietly to the high courts to stand up for his enemies. But she had never heard him speak so gently, as though the thing he held was fragile and tiny. It was so far from her narrative of herself that something finally _did_ break.

She nodded against his arm and said nothing.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Third year was the point at which she knew if she didn’t find some sort of distraction, she was going to go completely mad. She already survived on fewer than four hours of sleep each night, and no one noticed because she was very good at keeping herself cheerful and exuberant. It helped that everyone was completely obsessed with this stupid tournament. But something was off. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was more wrong than normal, and there was a crackle of it in the air. Like the electricity that you could feel in the air before a storm, just a shift of the hairs on your skin. She felt… wrong.

And it was more than just the voice, although that was all kinds of wrong too.

_ Ginevra. Ginevra Ginevra Ginevra. Ginevra Molly, isn’t that right? Named for your mother. Touching. _

All night, every night, she heard the hiss. She had started out positive that she was just hearing things, an echo of her own stupid mistake, but no sleeping potion knocked her out well enough to stop hearing it. No earplugs, or incantation, or any number of shields dropped the muttering voice.

When she’d started wandering around the castle at night, a thing she swore to her mother she would never do, it helped a little for a short time.

The castle at night was actually a far more wonderful place than it was during the day; the improbability struck her as funny. The place was  _ less  _ creepy,  _ less  _ intimidating in the dead of the night. There was a different set of rules in the wee hours.

She had it down to a science; the prefects went to bed at midnight. At 12:01, she would exit the portrait hole, disturbing a very disgruntled Fat Lady and begging her to stop shouting at her for her insolence. She would head down the main staircase, sit in the Great Hall—never at the Gryffindor table—until the voice started. Then, she’d do a loop of the entire second floor. It was her favourite because the tapestries contained many alcoves. Easy to hide behind from evening strolls involving professors. Ginny quickly collected a number of disturbing facts about her teaches—she’d never tell anyone what she knew, though, because that would require her  _ thinking  _ about it.

The second floor is where she remembered seeing him first. He didn’t feature greatly in her time at school, of course, so it was just those midnight encounters that she would later recall. He wandered too. She never stopped to ask him why. They would simply exchange a nod, curt and perfunctory, a silent agreement that they would never mention the other to anyone else.

Then they’d carry on with their separate, lonely, nighttime travels.


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital wasn’t half bad, truth be told. She was given a heavy sedative, slept for sixteen hours, and told she was suffering from a rare form of magical trauma that looked suspiciously like PTSD. They gave her the name of a new therapist, some Muggle medication that she had to take at the same time every day, and sleeping pills that smelt of lavender.

When she left three days later, she returned home to Molly’s fussing with a begrudging sort of gratitude; the cold, efficient care at the hospital had been unfamiliar. She accepted Molly’s stifling love for a little while with as little complaint as she could handle, but by the third day, she had remembered why she needed to move out.

When Harry appeared that morning, holding an envelope and a satisfied expression, she nearly leapt into his arms like a Victorian heroine.

“I’ve come to be your saviour,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire. “Told McGonagall about your leave, she wanted to know if you wanted to come teach flying for a few weeks at the school. Apparently, Madame Hooch is  _ thrilled  _ at the prospect. You can come live at the school… it’s all in this letter. She thinks she knows of a therapist in Hogsmeade you can see.”

“You told McGonagall about my  _ therapy, _ ” Ginny hissed.

Harry shrugged. “Course,” he said, completely baffled.

“You must be her  _ favourite  _ professor, sitting in her pocket like that,” Ginny scoffed.

But Harry just shrugged again. “I trust her,” he said simply. “You gonna come?”

“Well,  _ obviously, _ ” she hissed. “I may kill my mother otherwise, and I don’t think Azkaban is going to help my mental state very much.”   
  


━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

She turned up in Scotland the following day, hopping out of the floo in the pub ready for literally whatever they needed her to do; teach flying? Check. Run a sex ed class to sixth years? Sure, whatever. Mow the grounds of Hogwarts with only a pair of scissors? Pass her those sheers. Whatever kept her away from Ottery St Catchpole for as long as was humanly possible.

Her bag was slung high on her shoulder and her damned long hair was blowing in the frigging wind, and her shoe had come untied. The combination of all of these stupid factors on the unfamiliar ground led to the inevitable; the professional Quidditch player, famed for her precision and grace on a broom, fell arse over teakettle on her third step back on Hogwarts grounds.

“Of bloody  _ course, _ ” she grumbled, throwing her bag off and pulling her shoe towards her to tie.

“Need any help there?” a firm, pleasant, and utterly male voice said above her. “I heard we might end up with a celebrity in our midst.”

She sighed internally and hoisted herself to her feet. “I’m fine thank you,” she grumbled, ducking to get her bag. “Ginny Weasley,” she muttered as she stood back up, extending her hand and finally looking up.

“We’ve met, though you might not remember,” the man said, taking her hand and meeting her eye carefully. She startled slightly, familiarity and beauty combining to set her off balance—a rare occurrence, despite the current evidence. They were deep and enticing, but a shocking pale bronzed hazel that set themselves off gorgeously against his dark skin. “Blaise. Zabini. I was in your brother’s year.”

“I remember,” she choked out, shifting her duffle as she forced herself to release his hand. It had been a while since she’d been immediately attracted to someone who  _ wasn’t  _ Harry. A pleasant blush flooded through her, though she sort of hoped the warmth was mostly internal. Blushing may have been a step too far.

“Yes, I wondered if you would,” he said, smiling again. His face was lovely; trustworthy and bold, not in that aristocratic way that the Slytherin’s had in her memory, just honest to goodness lovely.

She needed to get out of this situation as soon as possible, before she noticed more things.

“I teach,” he said hastily, as though sensing her withdrawal. “Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Occasionally some Occlumency lessons to the seventh years.” 

“Ah,” Ginny replied, nodding but at a loss for words. 

“Yes, good, Blaise. Tell the woman things she didn’t ask about,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry. Do you need help up to the castle?” 

“N-no,” she stammered. “My shoe...my shoe was just untied…”

“Of course, I wasn’t implying—”

“No, I know, I just—” 

“No, don’t worry about it, I didn’t mean—” 

Ginny burst into sudden laughter that made Zabini frown.

“Merlin. Relax, mate,” Ginny said through her giggles. “Walk with me?”

He smiled hesitantly, but nodded, so Ginny strode forward up to the front doors.

“Hm,” she said, pausing. “This is rather a lot of nostalgia.”

He chuckled. “I know,” he agreed. “You get used to it, to be honest. The first few days, I felt like Snape was going to be round every corner, sneering at me for my tie being loose.” 

Ginny laughed again, and pushed the heavy door with her shoulder, taking in the smell of the ancient wood; the dull, dank air of old castle that lingered behind it, the sounds of students, mid-class change, rushing around her in a whirl of kinetic energy. She smiled. Sure, she was worried that everything could get worse again. After all, the nightmares, the visions, they had all started here.

But here, safe in the Hallowed Halls of  _ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _ , she knew how to handle it. Here, she knew the rules and the boundaries, knew the safe places and the dark spots.

She was home.

Zabini was watching her carefully out of the corner of his eye, and smiled when she caught him looking.

“Thankfully,” he said, “ _ that  _ feeling...it doesn’t go away. I see the Headmistress. I’ll just let her know you’re here.” 

“Thank you, Professor Zabini,” Ginny said as he walked away. 

“Blaise,” he corrected with a warm grin, pausing to look back. “Please.” 

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Blaise spent as little time as possible dwelling on the past; it never helped anyone and it just led to insomnia, tossing and turning until he got up and made extremely questionable decisions. The last time he’d gotten really bad, he hadn’t been able to stop until he had propositioned a man who had turned out to be an off-duty Auror, offering him twelve galleons to finish his night at Blaise’s flat.

That particular stint at the Ministry holding cell had led him here, back to Hogwarts, where it was illogically easier to leave his sordid history behind him in favour of helping new students make better memories.

Now, though,  _ she  _ was here. The girl with the setting sun in her hair and fire in her eyes. He remembered her, of course; always had, truthfully, since that night in third year when she’d vomited on his shoes. Inadvisable crushes had started for worse reasons than that, he was pretty sure. He’d spent the next three years waiting—if not exactly pining—for the feeling to fade. He’d kept a distant eye on her, over the course of many more midnight wanderings, the case of lifelong insomnia not cured simply because he was in school. Blaise never once tried to even be her friend, just watched from afar as she went through boy after boy,  none of them even remotely strong enough to handle her zest and her power. He’d finally found comfort when she’d ended up with Harry, in the midst of the drama with Draco in their sixth year. Harry Potter, at least, was power and spit, revenant care that would see her through. The fire in his belly anytime he saw the youngest Weasley was quelled for years. She’d met her match, and that was all he could ask.

Suddenly, though, here she was. She wasn’t with Potter, if the papers were to be believed. She also wasn’t well, if the Prophet had their sports news even half right; leave, they said, from her professional career. Now, what? Hiding out in Scotland with the rest of them?

Blaise knew that some of the people on staff – Longbottom, for instance – were definitely meant to be here. But most others, himself and Potter included, were here because the rest of the new wizarding world was too large for them. Too confusing. Too complex. It was safe here, under the watchful eye of McGonagall, who peppered them with earned praise and gentle guidance, the occasional stern reprimand when necessary. The rest of them liked to basque in the safety of the world as they understood it. The Hogwarts world. Is that why she was here? Blaise’s life had always been just the tiniest bit  _ complicated _ . Not difficult, or problematic. Just… complicated. Growing up, he’d both always known he was a wizard and had never been allowed to tell anyone or hang around other wizards. It had been incredibly confusing that he was allowed to use these ‘special skills’ at home, but never around other children. 

“ _B, my darling, you just don’t want to scare the other children, do you,”_ his mother would say to him.

And he didn’t. Mostly because he didn’t really  understand  the other children at the best of times. They were tiring. They fought about nothing and found boring things interesting. They wanted things to be a certain way, and when they weren’t, they whined. They were actually very boring, even at Hogwarts. They cared about all the wrong things; fame or money, Quidditch. Blood status. The years in Slytherin had been a bit tedious, even once he’d manage to find a few fast friends, people who cared enough about him that they didn’t get nervous when he was strangely protective of them. He found adulthood at Hogwarts slightly more comforting, but he still didn’t really understand or like most people.

But he liked sex.

It was the part of him that came from his mother that he hated the most. And he hated most of his mother’s traits. Much as it had always been for her, his life was often complicated by the fact that he liked sex and not people. It played at his subconscious and had since the moment he’d turned thirteen. That he was the type to use people, despite the fact that he was remorseful afterwards. Relationships were difficult, regardless of if he tried them with a man or a woman. He would get restless and difficult, bored before he’d even find a way to be comfortable.

He still didn’t sleep very well; he still spent hour after hour wandering the halls of Hogwarts, like he had been that night in the corridor with Ginny the first time. There had been so much drama that year, with the chamber and the potential for student deaths that no one had ever bothered check in on him. Even after Snape caught him out of bed for the third time, he’d been given a quick once-over by Pomfrey, prescribed some calming draught, and then had exactly zero follow-ups for the next twelve years.

He never bothered to tell anyone that the calming draughts did nothing for him.

Still, he guessed he was grateful; he was happy that he knew every inch of the castle. Happy that he knew when things started to go wrong. He noticed things that others didn’t. Sleeplessness was his superpower. 

Sleeplessness was how he’d noticed the fog.

He noticed it first that night, the night after he’d fumbled through a first meeting with Ginevra Weasley, the first time she would remember seeing his face and hearing his voice. He’d seen the changes in the windows of this rooms, on the East tower and overlooking the Forest. He was on his third cup of tea, the last one he would drink before giving in and going for a stroll around the corridors, trying to avoid finding students out of bed and pretending he was getting tired.

The forest, as usual, unsettled him. He knew it was mostly ghost stories, warning tales from professors meant to keep students in line. But there was also no doubt that the place held secrets, and not all of them safe. Even with privileges as a professor, he’d never felt it necessary to explore its depths like some of the other young staff.

The purple tinge to the canopy was only just noticeable that first night. He noticed, but only because he was Blaise. Only because he was used to noticing everything and preparing for the worst.


	4. Chapter 4

Some things about being at Hogwarts did not change in the slightest by sitting at the staff table. Curfew, for example, was still strictly enforced. There was a staff rota for who was on watch and orderly rules for when professors could roam freely. The rule of thumb was that a good example was the best offence. Just like during her time in school, the _illusion_ that curfew was adhered to was also studiously observed; she figured out in the first week of her stay that older students still met behind tapestries and in abandoned corridors for midnight rendezvous and covert study sessions. She found that most teachers also ignored these meetings as though they never noticed them. It was comforting.

She settled into an easy, pleasant routine; she taught first-year flying, gave private coaching sessions on trick flying to fifth years and above, acted as Quidditch coach with Harry, and helped on the grounds with Hagrid, who was constantly ecstatic for the company.

Other parts of being a staff instead of a student were tedious and impossible. Staff meetings, for one, quickly became the bane of her existence. In addition to the weekly staff roundup, meetings popped up seemingly at random; collect more than two staff members around a table at a time, and suddenly, there were quills and parchment out so notes could be taken, and serious tones took over even the most innocuous conversation.

She spent most of her free time distracted by two things. First, by trying to convince Harry that they absolutely were _not_ sleeping together anymore. He’d shown up twice at her dorm in the first week - where she was, confusingly, sleeping just fine – sad and expectant. She had sent him away both times, with only a small amount of remorse. But she meant it; she was done. Done with the past.

Second, she couldn’t quite shake the constant, steady presence of Blaise Zabini. He wasn't actually _around_ her that often. He had a life in the castle that was well established and respected, a schedule as a busy professor and a social schedule in the nearby village. He didn’t cross paths with her any more than anyone else ever did. The problem was that every time he did, he left Ginny with a strange flush and yearning, a confusing mixture of flustered annoyance and jovial warmth.

It made no sense since she barely knew him, but she _liked_ him, and for a moment, she let that fact quiet her brain and confuse her all at once.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Blaise was still not sleeping. He hadn't since the start of term and he was trying desperately to shake the feeling that it had something to do with Ginevra Weasley. It would be illogical to claim, and he'd never say it out loud, but something about her presence had brought him disquiet. He was standing staring at the night sky again, watching that hazy brilliance as it undulated and dipped between the trees, obscuring the moon. If he couldn't sleep anyway, watching the forest from somewhere other than his stuffy bedroom with a tiny window seemed perfectly reasonable. He noticed her well before she noticed him. Her face was grey and dewy, and she had stopped advancing through the halls, as though trying to convince herself to turn back. He approached her softly, trying to make noise so he didn't scare her.

“Did you need something, Ms Weasley?” Blaise asked quietly, trying to quell the panicked jump that appeared anyway.

“No, sorry, just…” Ginny stopped speaking abruptly, and Blaise noticed with a note of concern that her forehead was beaded with sweat. “I couldn’t sleep. I was going… I was just trying to see if I could find Harry.”

“You don’t look very well,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Please warn me if you plan on throwing up. Only I rather like these loafers, and I won’t be able to replace them until the break.”

Ginny looked up at him startled. “That  _was_ you then. I wasn’t sure.”

“It was. I don’t sleep much. Even then,” he said with a shrug, as though it was common knowledge. He had no idea how many people actually knew this about him. He didn't try to hide it, but until this year, he really had never run into anyone in his midnight jaunts. He looked at her worriedly. “I can come with you if you need Harry. Or the hospital wing? You really don’t look well.”

He watched as she decided to swallow a bit of the remaining fear, her shoulders thrown back in a challenge. She was not a weak person. He knew that, but apparently he hadn't managed to convince her that he didn't think she was a damsel in distress. She approached him confidently and glanced out the window he had been standing at, one of the few on the main level that faced the forest.

“Odd isn’t it,” she said simply, ignoring his concern and his question. “The fog? I’ve never seen it look like that before.”

“It’s almost purple,” Blaise said with a nod. “I’ve been watching it the past few nights. It keeps getting thicker... But you know, it is the forest.”

“Yes, full of deep mysteries.”

“Why do you look ill?” Blaise said, wincing at his own bluntness. She glanced at him and laughed a little, the clench in her throat subsiding even further, her body no longer tense. He noticed with a hint of relief that some of the colour had returned to her face.

“D’you know, I don’t think anyone has ever just  _asked_ me before," she said genially. "Even back when the teachers used to catch me out of bed.”

“Yes,” Blaise smiled. “No one ever asked me either. I get it now, though. I don’t like asking students I find either. Sometimes I pretend not to see them, but don’t tell anyone that.”

Ginny found herself grinning like a loon; she hadn't expected to find anyone in the hallways when she had left her room. She'd just needed to get away from the visions. The running had taken her very far from where she had intended to be, and yet, here she was, finding comfort and relaxation in the grinning face of a former Slytherin. He was polite and awkward, and he was standing here making jokes with her as though they were already friends. She did not answer him immediately, and he laughed a little.   
  
"I was only joking," he clarified. "I put them all straight into detention. I swear it." 

He gave her an exaggerated wink and the playful expression transformed his face; suddenly, the rumours about the salacious Blaise Zabini made sense. He was extremely handsome. He had a gentle deepness to his voice, a smirk that made you feel like you were in on a secret. He was mischievous. It suddenly made sense that people were always talking about his wild adventures. Ginny was entranced; she _longed_ for mischief, for adventure. She always had, even when adventure had been extremely unkind to her.

“You don’t sleep either,” she said, saving herself from another awkward pause. He smiled and shook his head. “I have nightmares,” she explained. “Bad ones. Sometimes they… get worse than bad.”

“Is it better when you aren’t—”

He froze, shook himself once, and looked back out the window.

“What?” she asked, a teasing tone hitting her voice unintentionally.

“Nothing,” he insisted. “You were going to find Harry?”

“It’s better when I’m not alone,” she finished, answering his unasked question. “Harry and I are just… we’re just good friends.”

Blaise cleared his throat and crossed his arms, studying the forest. “It’s none of my business,” he said quietly. Ginny wasn’t fooled, but she was also out of things to say. It was late, and the softness of midnight had made her shy. She echoed his stance and took a step back from the window.

“He’ll be up,” Blaise responded, a slight hint of sullen sadness to his voice. “He’ll be awake if you wanted to go talk to a friend."

Ginny took a deep breath and waited out her nervousness before saying, “Thought I just had.”

Blaise jolted, taken aback, and when he turned to look at her, he looked slightly embarrassed.

“Yes, of… of course,” he stuttered. “Glad I could be helpful in my complete lack of tact and good manners.”

“My mother always said that tact in the company of a real problem is as pointless as wearing a toad as a hat; it doesn’t work, and then everyone involved is going to be upset,” Ginny said quietly, the odd phrase making her smile fondly. She wasn’t even embarrassed at her odd exclamation. It must have been the memory of the moonlit corridor. “Good night, Blaise.”

“Good night, Ginevra,” he said softly.

She smirked at him in surprise but turned to walk back to her room before he could say anything else. Her panic softened so significantly, her head no longer buzzing with confusing whispers, she fell asleep quickly and stayed that way until breakfast was nearly over the next day.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

The next day dawned bright and sunny, further unsettling Blaise. You'd never have known that there had been an inexplicable fog in the sky the evening before. There wasn't a cloud to be found.   
  
He spent the morning pacing and pretending that he wasn't going to go and ask. When, by lunchtime, he felt like he was going to scratch out his own eyeballs, he traced a familiar path up three flights of stairs and down several twisting corridors. It was hot up here, in the late September heat wave, and he had to catch his breath a moment before he knocked. As expected, a soft 'come on in' granted him entry, the door swinging on easy, well-used hinges. 

He took a deep breath and plunged on ahead.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said, deciding that his usual attitude of straight-to-the-point would be the least suspicious.

“Blaise?” Potter replied, blinking in the sunshine that was behind him in the open window of his classroom. Potter insisted on the third floor for his Defense classes, and Blaise had to agree with his tactics. The large windows gave an air of contentment and safety to a room that was otherwise full of odd objects and squashy cushions, mirrors, and other tools for learning to battle the dark arts.

“Yes, sorry,” Blaise backtracked.

“No, no. Welcome," Potter said, waving him off. He put down a pile of books and turned to face him. "Sorry, go on. A question?”

“Can I ask you about Ms Weasley?” Blaise asked quickly. “You're… are you…”

Potter laughed a short humourless laugh. “Way to ambush a guy, Zabini. Would you like some tea or something? I have some... er... lemon drops, somewhere. I know this is an 'office hour', but we could have like, an actual conversation."   
  
Blaise swallowed and stilted his way through an affirmation. He sat when Potter gestured him towards a chair and wasn't the least bit surprised when he swung himself up onto the surface of his desk instead. The man was hardly ever in a _chair_. The air shifted between them, although Blaise thought perhaps he was imagining the tension.   
  
"Well, let's see. What's the best way to put this," Potter began sheepishly. "We haven't been together for many years." 

“Harry,” Blaise said, stopping him with a small smile. “You must know my reputation. I’ll tell you, for your own sake...it's a reputation I’ve earned. So you might as well start with the truth.”

Harry looked up at him with a small smile on his face that looked both sad and wistful. “You know Zabini, I’ve definitely grown to like you. I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re actually quite a good bloke, aren’t you? The students like you, the staff listen when you speak. And yet, you come into every situation with...an attitude."   
  
"That so," Blaise replied defensively.

  
"Hmm," Potter nodded. "You seem to assume that everyone is going to hate you. Can I ask why?”

Blaise, not easily flustered (except in the company of one very confusing woman), had an answer before Harry had even dropped his self-satisfied smirk.

“Slytherin’s lot, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Well, I don’t buy it, but, regardless. I like you. I've decided we're friends.” Harry said, standing up again.

  
"So, given that," Potter continued, standing in front of him.“Listen, mate. We haven’t been _together_ for years. When we are both single, we make questionable choices. It’s never been cheating, and I think we’ve both realised we really need it to stop. Does that answer your questions?”

Blaise studied him for a moment; as big as his fame had made him in school, even then, it was a well-known fact that Harry Potter was a very _Gryffindor_ Gryffindor. Incapable of lying, hot-tempered and quick to judge. He read in this little speech the permission that was being granted.

“Can I make a suggestion that you try to be friends with her first?" Potter added, returning to his stack of books and whatever he had been fiddling with when Blaise had arrived. "She doesn’t trust easily, and I can tell by that look on your face right now that she isn’t a quick shag, is she?”

Blaise opened his mouth, seriously meaning to answer and finding he had no words. He stood up, tried one more time, and closed his mouth again quickly. Potter gave a short laugh.

"Yeah," he said. “I know the feeling. Don’t hurt her.”

Blaise nodded seriously and turned to go.

“Zabini?” Potter said to his retreating form. “She… she’s very self-conscious about her nightmares. Just as a warning.”

It might have been an odd thing to say, but Blaise understood him immediately. He smiled gently and scrubbed his face. 

“I don’t sleep much anyway,” Blaise laughed as he left. 


	5. Chapter 5

For rest of the week, Ginny unintentionally ran into Blaise in the middle of the night. At first, she could have sworn he was doing it on purpose, but she quickly realised the problem was far more likely with her. The good sleep and calm of the first two weeks at Hogwarts had completely disappeared. 

Her fear of the nightmares had gotten the better of her, despite the new meds and the very time-consuming therapy she was enduring. She’d fallen hard into old patterns at the first sign of unrest. Travelling her well-worn path around the school, she found herself thinking, though not necessarily in a bad way.

At the first-floor student commons, she would wonder what she’d do when her flying career inevitably ended. At the second floor tapestry of the floating gnomes, she’d question whether or not her future included children. By the end of the stairwell near the Hufflepuff common room, she’d lean against a wall and wonder if her family thought less of her now.

She never ran into Blaise in the same place. On the fourth night, she found him in the same place she had the first night, standing by a large picture window on the third floor.

“You know,” she said jovially by way of greeting, making him jump, though at least part of him had to have been expecting her. “If I didn't know any better I'd think you were following me."   
  
He turned to her and grinned, completely unphased by her appearance.   
  
"And how do you know better, then?" he asked teasingly.

  
She hadn't planned on telling him, but the answer lept to her mind immediately, so she didn't fight it. Inhaling deeply, she muttered, "I remember running into you, in third year? I only just realised it was you a few days ago. I’m sure you’ve known longer. I wasn’t great at details back then.”

"Yes," he said cryptically. "I may have known it was you since that first day you dropped all your things on the grounds." 

She laughed with him jovially and stepped up to the window and looked out over the Forbidden Forest with Blaise, seeing what he was looking at immediately and frowning. The forest didn’t bother her; she’d faced demons for so long now that it took rather a lot to frighten her with things that were outside her own mind.

They stood together in silence for a moment, where she found her breathing had returned completely to normal once again; he had this effect on her. Calming by saying nothing, deep and stable even when he was obviously troubled by something of his own.

Having seen it many times now, it was hard to miss that the fog had changed colour again, seemed deeper and thicker, and had taken a completely lavender tinge to it.

“We should go check it out,” she said suddenly.

“Hm?” Blaise replied, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

“We should go see what it is. It’s still pretty early,” she shrugged. "Besides, it's not like either of us are going to lose any sleep." 

He turned to face her, his arms falling as he assessed her seriousness.

“Hang on," he clarified, with a hint of amusement in his tone that made Ginny blush. "Are you saying... You want to go into the Forbidden Forest, at night, to investigate the mysterious and colourful fog overlaying our _magical_ school?” 

She grinned at him. “Why? Don’t you?” she laughed.

His face, when it broke open, looked younger, less concerned. She wanted to bottle up the emotion and keep it in a jar. For no reason at all, except perhaps the silent corridor and the wide grin that so clearly read adventure, Ginny reached up on her tiptoes, drawing her hands into her jumper and leaning close to place a kiss gently on Blaise’s cheek. He looked adorably bashful and took a step back.

“Come on,” she teased. “Way I hear it, you are hardly lacking in a sense of adventure.”

His grin widened as his arms fell to his side; he looked at her with the sort of awe that she usually hated. Like she was some rare, mystical creature for being a woman who spoke her mind and liked to do what she wanted. This time though, it didn’t set off that flutter of annoyance in her stomach. The admiration was genuine, unexpected. So instead of getting angry, she grinned back and raised her hands in a ‘what are you gonna do’ gesture, and began walking away backwards. Knowing, for certain, that he would follow.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Despite her earlier bravado, Blaise liked the hesitancy that Ginny showed when they reached the edge of the forest; bravery was one thing, blind stupidity was quite another. Blaise admired those who knew the difference.

“Am I the only one who thinks this might have been a better idea from the safety of the castle?” she whispered, suppressing a shiver as she glanced up at the fog.

He didn’t disagree with her hesitation. Outside, in the midst of it, the air had taken on a strange heaviness and everything felt a little bit _itchy_. He nodded to her, and without overthinking it, he offered his hand. She smiled at him gently and took it, looking at the ground. Warm and dry, the contact made him shiver.

“Is this a bad time to admit I’ve never been in the Forest before?” he asked sheepishly.

“Classic,” she replied with a slightly derisive smirk. "Slytherin."

“It’s literally referred to as _forbidden,_ ” he replied defensively. “Besides, I never had a reason. I suppose the _Gryffindor_ has been here, has she?”

Ginny smirked at him wickedly and tightened her grasp on his hand.

“I’ve been here a few times,” she admitted with a shrug. There was an edge to her that hadn’t been there before, and he shifted uncomfortably at whatever it was that she wasn’t saying, but he didn't push her to explain. He had an instinctive feeling that trying to push Ginevra Weasley into  _anything_ was a terrible decision.

“Well? Shall we?” he prompted, stepping forward with more confidence than he felt.

They entered the dark throng of trees and found themselves on a path that was only really visible because of the lack of weeds here. Blaise figured it had to have been made by Hagrid, who was, as far as he knew, the only person who entered the forest regularly.

At first, it just felt like woods. It was dark, sure, but it was also nighttime and the fog was obscuring the moon. Nothing about the trees felt any more sinister than any forest would have in the middle of the night; there was no crackle of magic, no feeling of being watched. The space around them was still and quiet. Blaise listened hard, trying to prepare himself for encounters unknown. Beside him, Ginny was stiff and tightly wound, her wand surreptitiously drawn in the hand Blaise was not holding; it was only as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye that he remembered who she really was. He decided they needed to talk, or else they were both liable to overreact to even the slightest noise. Trying not to be too loud, he braced himself.

“What’s it like, being a celebrity?” he asked her lightly. She visibly winced, but he made no move to take the question back.

“Honestly?” she answered. “If I didn’t love flying so much, I’d quit tonight. I’ve been thinking, actually, about what I do next. It’s hard to follow up a career where you get to fly everyday and travel constantly.”

He nodded as though he understood, but truthfully, he’d never considered who he’d be if he wasn’t him, what he’d do if he had to leave Hogwarts. He was comfortable, mostly happy. The subtle loneliness and the nights without sleep were usually easy to overlook.

“Can you - Can you hear the voice?” Ginny asked hesitantly. It took him a moment to realise that the question wasn't a follow up to his. She was asking him to pay attention to their very questionable surroundings. He took himself out of his deep contemplation and listened hard.   
  
“Voice?” he repeated. She nodded vehemently but he shook his head, glancing around and looking for danger. He gripped her hand tighter, and she squeezed back, moving her body closer to him gratefully.   
  
“What have you decided, then?” he pressed, gliding them forward but also keeping a firm watch on the road ahead of them. They turned left with the path and ducked a low bush. He didn’t quite know where he was taking them, but he was also moving confidently, forced forward by some invisible tug in his navel that he was trying not to focus on too hard.   
  
“Decide?” she asked, her eyes whipping around their surroundings, a flighty, nervous watch that didn’t suit her stance or what he knew of her personality. She was scared. It felt like that was unusual.   
  
“What will you do next?”   
  
She laughed a short laugh. “Probably flounder around pointlessly until I end up working at the paper full time, which I hate. Or else, living in my parents’ house forever,” she said mirthlessly, shrugging.

“You should speak to McGonagall. She likes you. You could probably work here.”   
  
“Well,” she sighed. “That might be complicated. Lots of history.”   
  
He gazed at her sidelong and nodded. “With Harry,” he replied knowingly.   
  
She turned to look at him and laughed gently. “No,” she insisted. “No, not with Harry. With _Hogwarts._ ”

He was going to ask her more, but she was watching him now and he squirmed uncomfortably.   
  
“You know, I like you Zabini. You say what you mean,” she said suddenly. “Why weren’t we friends in school? I know my brother and his friends were pretty…”   
  
“House-ist?” Blaise grinned. She nodded. “I think it’s probably because I was an asshole in school. Plus, I had a huge crush on you and was scared to speak anytime you were near me,” he added with a shrug.   
  
“A crush... on me _?_ How?” she asked in a high voice. “I barely even remember you.”   
  
Blaise laughed again. “Way to stroke a guy’s ego, there, Ms Weasley. I dunno…you threw up on my shoes?"   
  
"Well then," she laughed. "I'll have to remember that one at the bars."

“Can I ask you one more question?” Blaise said gently. When she nodded, he took a chance. “I asked Harry about you. He said… well, he mentioned nightmares.”   
  
Ginny’s face flashed anger that he hadn’t seen often, but that he believed was actually a very lovely, enticing part of her personality. It suited her, the fury; it made her seem so powerful, so independent. Sexy. She didn’t show vulnerability often, this woman, and it was endearing to know that he’d been present for some of those moments. His breath caught in his throat, even as he tried to back peddle and take the question back.   
  
“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry. Harry just… didn’t really have a right,” she growled.   
  
“That’s true. I'm sorry," Blaise said quickly.  
  
“No, it’s… I think I’d like to tell you. We’re friends, right? Or we could be. We are. We will be,” she settled on with a firm nod. He smiled at her and gestured with their joint hands.   
  
“Let’s go this way,” he indicated. “Seems a bit brighter.”

As they walked, she regaled him with a fantastic story, one that was instantly believable and absolutely appalling. By the end of it, Blaise was furious. He was angry at so many people, the list was growing hard to hold onto. How dare Malfoy Senior, and Tom Riddle. How dare Dumbledore ignore Ginny as a mere side victim afterwards, and how dare Potter not treasure this woman more, and sooner, enough to notice that she was falling apart. He was gripping her hand so tightly that eventually, she gave a small chuckle, and used her other hand to pry him off of her gently. 

“It’s okay, Blaise,” she said, but he was unconvinced. His anger boiled in him until he turned to tell her exactly how  _not okay_ this all was.

He found her grinning at him, full of warm admiration; her hair was a strange, shining magenta because of the thick purple fog. She was soft and hard, small and giant, and a million other things. She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder gently. 

“You’re a contradiction, aren’t you Blaise?” she asked him quietly, so oddly echoing his own thoughts about her that he chuckled through the catch in his throat. “So protective, but careless. Quiet, but full of righteous indignation. So Slytherin.”   
  
He closed his eyes as her thumb brushed his cheek; he knew he was going to do it, but Harry’s words were echoing in his head. Ginny, for whatever reason, had very suddenly become the answer to questions he never let himself ask.   
  
_Am I happy? Am I lonely? Do I care about anything? Am I destined to just repeat all the mistakes I’ve ever made? Am I just my mother?_   
  
But as he leaned in, gently kissing Ginny in the dark forest, his brain went utterly silent; it was a very freeing feeling. For a moment, Ginny sighed and kissed him back, stepping into his embrace and leaning into him. But she pulled away a moment later, looking all around her wildly.   
  
“Blaise,” she stated. “I think I’d really like for you to do that again sometime if it could be arranged. But I have to tell you two things; one, I am suddenly questioning our decision to enter the forest at midnight without telling anyone, and two, that mysterious fog above our heads has been whispering my name for the past fifteen minutes, and it’s getting pretty distracting.”   
  
Blaise looked around him now too, nodding firmly and stepping back.   
  
“For the record, I will do it again, if you’ll let me,” he muttered, uncharacteristically shy and glancing at the ground. "But you might be right. Let's get out of here."

The clearing around him suddenly came into sharp view; he hadn’t even noticed when they’d left the cover of the trees, because the light had barely changed. He looked all around him, trying to decide which direction they should leave. He asked her if she'd seen where they had come in. Ginny did not answer him. He turned to take her hand back in his to stave off the sudden chill, and panic took over immediately.

Ginny was no longer beside him.   
  
Ginny was nowhere to be seen.


	6. Chapter 6

The fog that had stolen any ambient light the second they had entered the forest had grown far darker since they’d reached the clearing. It had also gained a disconcerting thickness; Ginny kept thinking that  _chewy_ would be the right word to describe it, and the thought made her grimace.

Even more disconcerting, however, was the shifting smell. Sometimes, she would turn a corner, and find that it smelt of lilacs. Moments later, the wind would change and it would smell of her mother’s kitchen at Sunday dinner. Right now, though, it was reminding her of the smell of the locker rooms at the pitch. A bit of damp, mixed with many people’s shower products and the stale scent of dried mud and sweat. It wasn’t pleasant to most people, but it spelt comfort for her. Honestly, she was pretty sure all the smells the forest were giving her were trying to put her at ease, and she was therefore on high alert.

_Never trust a thing that thinks if you can’t see where it keeps its brain._

“Blaise?” she tried again, irrationally hopeful that he’d respond despite all her previous attempts since he’d disappeared into the mist after kissing her. She was becoming increasingly convinced that this whole thing was a long, complex, and unshakeable nightmare. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time. It didn’t matter that Blaise’s large, warm palm had felt so real in her hand, or that his lips had been the first time she’d felt the flutter of lust for someone who wasn’t Harry in literal years. It could still be just her broken, twisted brain, luring her into comfort.

There was a small sound to her left. She dashed forward, heedless of the pitch darkness and the roots scattered at her feet. She fell trippingly forward and called out again.

“Ginny?” the voice responded. She stopped frozen in her tracks. The voice was not Blaise. It sounded, confusingly, like Bill. “Ginny, come here,” the voice insisted.

“Don’t listen to it,” a different voice, hoarse and grinding but familiar nonetheless, called out from her opposite side.

She spun around and sagged in relief when she saw a slowly approaching Blaise, his deep eyes wild with fear but with a quelling hand extended. She ran forward and threw herself into to his arms.

“Where the fuck did you go?” she hissed into his neck.

“ _Me_?” he argued. “I’ve been here the whole time! I called you for like an hour.”

Ginny scowled. “Okay, so we’ve definitely decided something is _not right_  here, correct?”

“I think perhaps I can concede that you were right all along, yes” Blaise said apologetically. “There’s a voice in the mist. A  _thing_ in the fog.”

“Merlin’s beard," she tried to tease, her voice too thick with terror for the joke to land. "A boy who can admit he was wrong. What will your President say?”

“I suspect my Manly Man card will be revoked, but I stand by my statement. I think he may even understand when I tell him I was staring down the barrel of Ginevra Weasley.”

She studied him a moment, ignoring the still sultry voice behind her that was whispering her name, bidding her to join him. It didn’t sound like Bill anymore, now that she wasn’t facing it. It sounded silkier, sexy. And it was extremely unnerving. She focused on the shadow of Blaise’s face, the dark really only highlighting that he was real, three dimensional. His expressive eyes were currently a mystery to her, disturbingly unreadable.

“Why do you do that?” she asked gently. “No one calls me Ginevra.”

Blaise cleared his throat. “I dunno.”

“Hm,” she grumbled. “Bullshit, but as we are currently under attack, I’ll drop it for now.”

“Under attack?” Blaise replied, sounding slightly bemused.

“Well,” she insisted grumpily. “Have you or have you _not_ noticed that we have been walking circles around this clearing, with this unnaturally thick fog growing all around us? Not to mention that we both spent the better part of an hour calling out for each other from approximately a metre apart and not finding one another.”

“Well-”

“So, yes, Blaise,” she pressed. “I’d say that we are under attack.”

Blaise grabbed her arm and pulled her close, very suddenly. His movement made her gasp, because she hadn’t seen him coming, and even though she was pretty sure it had just been an inhalation, he shushed her just the same. It sent a quiver of annoyance through her that she immediately quashed. He clearly had a reason at this moment.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. She shivered but listened hard. Truthfully, she heard nothing. Even the voice calling her had ceased.

A cold wind brushed over her arms, the air spiralling and sailing up past her head. Not cool, not a breeze like when you stood by the sea, the air much colder than the ambient temperature and apt to make you shiver. No, this. This was a _frigid_  gust; it would have been more at home in December than this warm, early Fall.

Blaise suddenly dropped his arms from where they had been desperately clawing her close to him. She turned to ask him what was wrong, and found he was no longer beside her. She had just enough time to notice that he was now lying at her feet, splayed at unnatural angles and writhing in a painful looking arch before she felt her own feet drift out from underneath her.

She wanted to scream, but there simply wasn’t time.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

When she became aware of the air around her again, gulping it in painful gasps, she immediately noticed the warmth and the softness. There was no more forest squish beneath her back, no more darkness and cold wind. She was in a softly lit room, warm from a fire, almost too hot, cloying. She tried to sit up, and could not. She tried to call out, but her voice was silent.

 _“You say that she will not recover?”_ a cool voice was saying to her right. She tried to turn her head to see the speaker, but her neck would not obey her command. She lifted one arm and then the other, found them unresponsive.

_“I’m afraid not,” another voice was replying. “I’ve done all I can. The damage… it was extensive.”_

_“Don’t worry, Poppy, no one will blame you. We will let her go peacefully tomorrow. Once her family has…”_

Ginny tried to scream, tried to show she was awake.  Dumbledore,her brain supplied. It was Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey. They must have found her in the forest.

_“It is a shame. Such wasted potential. She would have been so helpful.”_

_“She just wasn’t strong enough.”_

The strange exchange bounced around in her brain for a moment. What were they talking about? She shifted her eyes down as far as she could, trying to find her watch to check the time, and froze in perfect horror to find her too big, hand-me-down Hogwarts pyjamas. Too big. That meant before her growth spurt.

_It meant second year._

“I’m still in the forest,”she said, her mouth sticky but moving now, though no sound she could process came out . “I’m still in the forest,”  she repeated more forcefully, dragging her arms behind her so she could push herself up to sitting .

It was like moving through thick treacle, but a moment later and she was free, the freefall of sitting on the forest floor again making her head pound and her stomach lurch. She turned to find that Blaise was still lying beside her, writhing and fighting something with the ends of all his limbs. She ducked a misdirected punch and dragged him up by the shoulder, gently tapping his face once she had him propped up.

“Blaise,” she said firmly. “Blaise, you are still in the forest. It isn’t real. It’s Ginny. Ginevra. You are still in the  _forest_.”

His eyes suddenly snapped open, locking onto hers with a gasp of air that was sharp and painful.

“It’s... it’s okay,” she soothed. “It wasn’t real.”

“Was,” Blaise gasped. “Was a memory. But…”

“But like you were in it and it was twisted.” She nodded firmly. “Yeah, same. But it wasn’t real.”

“I think…” he said, gesturing around them.

“Yeah, it’s definitely the fog. Do you smell lilacs?” she asked.

“No,” he whispered, running his hands across his face and standing up. “New parchment.”

“Things that are comforting,” she agreed. “Think we need to get out of this clearing, don’t you?”

“Yes, obviously,” Blaise huffed, standing slowly and shaking himself off. “Okay, let’s think about this for a moment, though. Any ideas what’s going on here?”   
  
She shook her head sharply, but started listing things on her hands. “Heavy mysterious fog,” she started. “Whispering voices that say my name… do you hear that too?”   
  
Blaise shook his head.   
  
“Okay, so I’m having hallucinations,” she grimaced. “That’s a little alarming. Then there’s the separating, the sound dampening, and the twisted memories. That about it?”

He nodded. “Was your memory… did it show you in danger?”   
  
She nodded back at him. “Hospital wing. After the Chamber. You?”   
  
“Third year,” he confirmed. “Accidentally poisoned. It’s a long story.”

“So, it’s times when we were in danger because of someone else. But, with alternative endings?”

They studied each other for a moment before Ginny shook her head firmly. “It’s time to get out of here. This is beyond either of us. I thought this was just weird weather, but something really odd is going on here.”   
  
“You are absolutely and completely correct on that one,” Blaise replied with a vigorous nod. “And I’ll tell anyone who asks."  
  
Quickly, she took his hand and they began to run; she pulled him along when he stumbled, her blithe athleticism serving her actual purpose for once. Moments later, they seemed to be out of the clearing. She turned to thank him, to ask if they should slow down, and promptly tripped, tumbling down hard on her left knee. She cried out in pain as she crumpled to a heap on the floor. She felt like she was still holding Blaise’s hand, but the purple fog descended on her, engulfing her in it’s sickeningly sweet haze until she felt woozy.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

The world tilted again in a sudden whirl of purple and lavender. This time, though, Ginny instinctively realised that it was not the past, twisted and knotted; the world she was in now was a clumsily fabricated future. It lacked detail, was fuzzy around the edges, just enough information to make it feel real.

It was Christmastime. Just after Christmas morning, in fact, judging by the look of the room. Everything was over-decorated; in proud Weasley tradition, it looked like Christmas had arrived and exploded on every available surface. On the heavily laden tree, a macaroni star of purely hideous glory crowned the peak. Ginny knew it immediately, having made it with her own chubby fingers at age four. It was her star, but the room was completely foreign to her. She liked it, though. Beneath the Christmas, there was modern sleek furniture and cheery, spruce coloured walls.

Under the tree sat a small girl, maybe five or six, with a mop of unruly, deeply auburn curls and a lovely caramel skin that glowed with an internal sun. She was tinkering with some sort of toy–a fake potions set with a tiny replica cauldron? Ginny couldn’t be sure. Suddenly, she was aware of a step beside her and a deep chuckle that was both unfamiliar and achingly comforting.  
  
“Uh oh,” it said. “Nostalgia and whimsy have taken hold, I can see it in your eyes. Are you planning on joining us at some point?”   
  
She heard herself speak in quiet, Christmas morning tones, though she was sure that her mouth had not moved. “Sorry,” she replied. “I was just taking it all in.”   
  
“Well, I suppose you can for a few more moments,” Blaise chuckled, “but you’d better be prepared for them all landing in less than fifteen minutes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
  
There was a gentle kiss on the top of her head before Blaise wandered past her. He was wearing soft grey pyjamas and a knitted jumper with a large amber ‘B’ emblazoned across its deep purple surface. She registered that he was older, more relaxed. He had a kinetic magic about him, making her skin buzz where his lips had hit her hair, but he was also gentler; there was a shadow of white at the edges of his dark, close-cropped hair and in his stubble. He looked a little tired, but not in a bad way. He was just more… mature. 

“Olive, my love,” he said in a stern approximation of reprimand as he entered the living room. “You’ve been asked  _twice_ to take your toys upstairs.”  
  
The little girl looked up at them both, her bright honeyed eyes rife with a mischief that belonged entirely to her obvious Weasley genes. She pouted unconvincingly.  
  
“But  _Dad_ ,” she whined. “Mum doesn’t have to take  _her_ toys upstairs.”   
  
Blaise laughed, a bright, bold sound that filled the whole room and sent a jolt of lust through her core, even as the words _mum_ and  _dad_ filtered through her conscious thoughts. He stepped forward and moved a broomstick and a box of Quidditch balls into the corner behind the tree.

“That’s because _Mum’s_ toys are far less interesting and also a lot less likely to end up broken when your cousin Hugo decides he wants to have a go,” Blaise said, bending down and scooping up the little girl. He swung her upside down and she roared with giggles that were so light and beautiful that Ginny had gone a little misty by the time the girl locked eyes with her from her inverted position.

“Mummy what’s wrong?” she demanded in alarm. Blaise looked at her too, and worry creased his face when he noticed her mistiness. He marched towards her, still holding the child upside down, until the two of them were right beside her. He righted the girl and she gripped Ginny tightly around the neck, nuzzling her face into her skin, warm and lovely.

“Yes, Mummy,” Blaise murmured, wrapping his arms around them both and enveloping her in sweet, smoky warmth. “What’s wrong?”   
  
She opened her mouth, the same phantom feeling of being about to speak without being in control of her mouth, but the doorbell rang out before she got the chance. She held onto the little girl ( _Olive,_ her brain corrected) and shook her head as she went to answer it.

On the other side of the door was a fantastic sight of epically confusing proportions; a gaggle of familiar people awaited her with bright grins and a magnitude of wrapped gifts. 

Her parents appeared first, her mother holding a squirming red-headed child of about four who looked so much like Ron that Ginny’s mouth fell open in alarm. Unaware of her distress, Molly and Arthur pushed their way in with kisses and hugs and general cheer. Next, she found Rose stood in the entry, quietly removing her boots. She looked to be about nine now but wore the same serious expression she had as a baby. She was followed closely by Hermione and Ron, who kissed Ginny on the cheek and hugged Blaise warmly. They were usurped by George and Angela, and their triplets, nearly teenagers and arguing loudly as they tramped through the throng. As suddenly as it had started, the parade appeared to end, leaving Ginny’s head spinning.

Before she could close the door, though, she was stopped dead in her tracks by a running bottle of energy that bowled into her legs and quickly attached itself there with a vehement hug that only reached her thighs. 

“Ruby,” a tired but gentle voice chastised. “Let Auntie Ginny go. You’ll hurt her. Or Olive. Go help Mum with the gifts please.” 

The blonde little girl sighed a mighty sigh, but did let go and walked back down the walkway with a heavy step.   
  
“Happy Christmas, Gin,” Harry smiled, one arm wrapping around her, avoiding both a clinging Olive and the slumbering child he held in his own arms. He noticed her gaze and laughed quietly. “Classic Jamie. Fell asleep for the first time in twenty-four hours just as we needed to leave the house. I’m no longer convinced he’s ever going to sleep through the night. Eighteen months and counting, now.”   
  
Her mouth gaped a bit at the startling realisation that this was  _them_ ; they were here, they were together. But they were not, at all, together. It maybe should have come to her sooner, the realisation that she belonged to Blaise in this world. That Olive belonged to them  _both_. Thankfully, the vision version of her knew how to respond to this interaction. Her internal self was screaming and flailing, and wouldn’t have been able to reply.  
  
“And you keep trying to convince me and Blaise to have another,” she teased with a chuckle.   
  
“Don’t let him fool you,” a jovial voice called from behind them, swinging her blond curls out of her eyes, smiling with a familiar warmth and a pleasant crinkle in her eyes, their bright green so similar to her daughter’s. “It’s not been a bad thing at all. Plus, you’re a Weasley. Won’t you be disowned if you try to raise an only child?”   
  
“Happy Christmas, Ivy,” her vision-voice smiled.

She turned back to speak to Blaise and watched in horror as he melted into the ground.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything went black and she twisted her head to the right, finding Blaise unconscious on the ground beside her again. His face was relaxed, his eyelids moving slowly. Dreaming. _Alive_. She exhaled with the force of returning to the forest floor; she turned her head and vomited, vertigo hitting her heavily in the chest with even this very slight movement.

There was a rustle to her left, and the large black shape was on her before she even had time to draw her wand. The muffled scream felt pointless, but she noticed Blaise jolt awake at the sound; he looked at her with wide-eyed fear and drew his wand in front of him. 

“DIFFINDO!” he bellowed, aiming directly for her. She winced, waiting for the blow. She was convinced the fog had made him mad; he was attacking her now.

Instead, however, she was soaked with an inky, sticky fluid, and the weight that had been holding in her breath on her chest disappeared.  
  
“Are you alright?” Blaise screamed, forcing an object off her. She tried to reassure him, standing quickly and nodding furiously as her stomach rolled.  
  
He trotted toward a tree and was sick himself, his wand out defensively. He spun around wildly as Ginny watched, looking for more creatures. She bent to examine what had attacked her but found nothing on the ground. When he made his way back to her side, Blaise started nudging the floor with his toe. He turned to her and grabbed her arms roughly, turning her left and right in the faint glow of his wand light.  
  
“I’m fine,” she insisted, ripping her arms out of his grasp. “The thing is gone. You must have injured it.”  
  
Blaise looked at her sharply, his mouth falling open to gape at her. “Ginevra, what are you talking about? The creature… I killed it. It’s right _there_ .”  
  
He pointed with his wand light towards the stain on the forest floor, but Ginny saw nothing. She shivered at the implication.

“Ginny!” a familiar voice was suddenly shouting, terror and panic edging the tone. “Ginny! Can you hear us!” 

“Stop _shouting_ , Potter!” a closer, older voice reprimanded. “We don’t know what has taken them.”  
  
“Here!” Blaise called, his wand still raised. Ginny mimicked his stance.

There was a rustle and the short, desperate sounds of someone cutting through unfamiliar brush before Harry and Minerva McGonagall appeared in front of them, wands also drawn.  
  
“Protego!” Harry shouted, pointing his wand at Blaise and creating a shimmering barrier between him and Ginny. As he approached, Harry grabbed her arm and dragged her behind him.  
  
“Really, Potter,” McGonagall chastised, going immediately to Blaise’s side in concern.  
  
“What did you do to her?” Harry demanded, holding too tightly to Ginny’s arm, even as she tried to rip herself from his grasp.  
  
“Harry, what is _wrong_ with you, let me go!” she shouted. He finally released her. “Drop that ridiculous barrier! What has gotten into you!”  
  
“What did he do to you to get you to come into the Forest during an Ignis Fog!” Harry shouted.  
  
Blaise lowered his wand in confusion, even as the Protego barrier fell. “What?” he asked. “No… Ignis Fog is green. Like the Fatuus.”  
  
“Except when impacted by dark creatures. You know… Like the ones that live in _this forest._ You’ve been at Hogwarts for five years! You expect me to believe this is the first fog? What was your plan, eh Zabini? Seduce her with _fear_? I should _kill_ you.”  
  
Harry advanced on Blaise, who barely moved but suddenly had his arm raised again.  
  
“Harry, it was my idea,” Ginny growled, stepping in Harry's way. “You do realise that this whole ‘knight in shining armour’ bullshit is a bit passé, right? We were doing just fine. We were just on our way out.”  
  
“Ms Weasley,” McGonagall interjected from the ground, where she was stooped and examining the dark spot. “Have you felt okay this evening?”  
  
“W-what?” she stuttered, anger flaring in her again. Harry was planning on attacking Blaise, and McGonagall wanted to know if she was _feeling_ okay. She nodded harshly when the professor just continued to glare at her.  
  
“I believe, Mr Potter, that these two entering the forest this evening may have just saved Ms Weasley’s life.”

Harry sputtered for a moment, trying to find a way around Ginny that wouldn't be obvious, and he glared down at Minerva.  
  
“How!” Harry shouted finally. He was angry and it had always been hard to calm him down when he was mad. They all looked at him sharply nonetheless; shouting at Minerva McGonagall was never advisable. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “But I don’t see how entering the forest in the middle of the night during a fog that reveals evil spirits has _saved_ anyone. Zabini should have known better.”  
  
“Perhaps,” McGonagall conceded with a shrug as she straightened. “I wonder, though, if we can have a little pop quiz with my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”  
  
Harry finally dropped his wand and whirled around to look at her. His face had lost some of its tension, gained curiosity instead. Blaise let his wand fall as well and moved closer to Ginny, still studying her blood-soaked clothes in the faint purple glow. She was suddenly very tired and everything hurt. It might have just been the fact that Minerva had called attention to her physical wellbeing, but she nonetheless shifted slightly until she was standing closer to Blaise. She leaned on him, grateful for his warmth and stability. He wrapped an arm around her, but not before casting a cautious glance towards Harry.

For the first time since waking from the vision, Ginny let her brain wander to what she had seen there; Blaise, caring and quiet, loving and rational. The exact opposite of Harry. That had to be a good thing. Had to be what she needed. Sure, the vision had been provided by something dark and sinister, something that very likely would have killed her had she been here alone. But she couldn’t help but also consider the very different future it had provided her.

She glanced around from under Blaise’s arm, noting Harry wandering over to where McGonagall stood. She looked up at Blaise, clung a little closer, and cleared her throat.  
  
“Did you… did you have another vision, the second time we fell?” she whispered. He glanced down at her with concern in his eyes and shook his head. She felt her chest deflate.  
  
“Why?” he whispered back. “Did you? More memories?”  
  
She considered for a second, but before she could reply, they heard Minerva call them closer.  
  
“Alright, Harry, you’ve studied the body. Do you know what we are dealing with now?”  
  
Harry looked perplexed and shook his head as Blaise and Ginny approached, pausing just outside the bloodstain.

“What do you know of the _Iele_?” McGonagall asked gently.  
  
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Balkan legend?” he replied hesitantly. “They… don’t they just dance? And like… occasionally curse people for seeing them dance?”  
  
McGonagall smiled and nodded. “Mostly right,” she allowed. “But as you well know, there are often many stories surrounding mythic creatures that do not gain popularity because they aren’t as fantastic or romantic as the ones we use to frighten children. Do you know anything else?”  
  
Harry shook his head, and the others waited patiently. Blaise kept glancing at the ground, drawing Ginny’s attention each time he did. She still couldn’t see whatever it was they were looking at and it was starting to make her very uncomfortable. Minerva caught her looking and she shifted even more.  
  
“There is a little-known story about _Iele_ ,” she continued. “It speaks of people that have displeased them becoming carriers for their spawn. It is almost a... parasitic infection. Over time, the infant matures, and the powers of become harder for the host to ignore. Often, these things include siren-like suggestions. Hallucinations. Intense foreboding and nightmares.”  
  
Minerva paused and looked at Ginny significantly. She moved forward, took Ginny’s hand, and pulled her towards the stain. “Tell me, Ms Weasley,” she prompted gently. “Can you see the body that is here?”  
  
Ginny’s throat caught and she simply shook her head.  
  
“Yet you see the blood it has shed,” Minerva murmured. Ginny nodded her agreement. “As I suspected. The blood… it is yours – no, don’t be alarmed, you are unharmed. It was outside your body when Blaise attacked it. Dragged out by the fog, most likely. Almost like… like a salve? Had you not come here, the creature likely could have lived inside you for many more years, undetected. It could have eventually driven you mad, before freeing itself and joining its sisters.”  
  
Harry gasped slowly, everything clicking into place.  
  
“How long?” he whispered.  
  
“Well, it is impossible to know,” Minerva apologised. “But given your history? I suspect since school. Who do we know, Harry, who had spent some time in the Baltics.”

She looked at him significantly, but it was Ginny who answered.  
  
“Voldemort,” she supplied, her voice failing her. “Albania.”  
  
“Indeed.” Minerva put an arm across Ginny’s shoulders, started walking her out of the forest again. “I do not know for sure how it happened since it cannot have been induced by the events with the diary, but I suspect the creature was in the castle, waiting for the appropriate host. Then… with the chamber… and the dark magic you used that year. It just misread the situation.”  
  
“My whole life,” Ginny whimpered. “All the nightmares. All the lost sleep.”  
  
“It is a testament to your strength that it did not impact you more,” McGonagall said firmly. "You have been braver than we could ever have imagined."  
  
Ginny sank to her knees, falling out from under Minerva’s grasp. She meant to stand right back up again, meant to thank her, meant to ask more questions. Instead, her relief engulfed her and she fainted onto the pine-needle strewn ground of the purple hazed forest.

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

When she woke, Ginny noticed first and foremost that it was still night; she leapt from her bed, feeling only a faint dizziness as she flew to the window. The sky, however, was clear. A large, white, nearly-full moon reflected off the lake and cast long shadows out of the trees. The purple fog had entirely disappeared.

“You’re alright,” a deep voice whispered from behind her.

She turned to find Blaise, in new clothes and with bandages on one hand, sitting on a hospital bed to the right of her own. She gazed quickly around her, unbidden memories of the Hospital Wing trying to flood her senses. She pushed them down and refocused on Blaise, who was sitting up and watching her.  
  
“What happened?” she asked.  
  
“Um… let’s start with an easier question,” Blaise said with a chuckle. “What do you… what do you remember?”  
  
She explained her memories up to fainting, and he nodded shortly before standing up himself. He came to stand beside her at the window.

“We got you back up here after that. You’ve been asleep all day.”  
  
She laughed, “Well shit. That’s the longest I’ve slept in fifteen years.”

He smiled down at her, the happy gaze of someone who was mostly just relieved. Her stomach jolted and her cheeks warmed gently. She remembered, suddenly, his kiss. She couldn’t help it, though she knew she should likely be focused on many other things.  
  
“So Harry didn’t kill you then?” she teased.  
  
“He did not, miraculously.” Blaise laughed. “He did, however, tell me that if I ever put you in danger again and treated it like a date, he would remove my entrails one piece at a time. I didn’t think he had that much insult in him.”  
  
“He’s surprising that way,” Ginny replied, trying not to get stuck on the word date.  
  
“Yes,” a new voice said. “I am. And everyone should really start remembering that. You okay, Gin?”  
  
“Yes, I feel _wonderful_ ,” she answered truthfully. Harry smiled, but the frown that quickly followed was one she knew well. “What?” she stated. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Bad news or good news first?” Harry said with a sigh, sitting on a chair by Blaise’s bed. They both wandered over and perched there; Blaise’s hand lingered close to hers, and she let it slide closer until she was holding it. Coy had never really worked for her. She checked Harry’s expression, but he just smiled at her lightly. It was strange, knowing he actually approved. She didn’t know why, since she’d felt the same way about Ivy… still felt that way about Ivy. No one ever warned you how hard it was going to be to be friends with your exes.  
  
Blaise, on the other hand, blushed gently beneath his dark cheeks and would not meet her eye. She let the glee of causing embarrassment wash over her.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugged, finally answering Harry.  
  
“Well, okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Good news? An expert came to examine the body. Apparently, it was, in fact, a young _Iele_. Thank Merlin for McGonagall’s strange knowledge base. If we’d tried to move it, it could have clung to any of us. But it’s dead. The Ministry official said that the fact that you couldn’t see it confirmed that.”  
  
“Awesome," she said, straightfaced. "Harry, no offense, but I am trying really hard to figure out why the fact that I _was_ being possessed for many decades by a mythological Baltic creature is the _good news_ .”  
  
“Well,” Harry continued, pushing his glasses back up on his face and crossing his arms. “Because the bad news is that there has to be an inquiry.”  
  
“What?” Blaise and Ginny hissed at the same time.  
  
“The _Iele_ are endangered. Or something," he said apologetically. "And apparently, they aren’t sure why you wouldn’t have noticed for so long. They think you intentionally went into the fog that night. To draw it out. Enslave it-- Oh yes, don’t worry, Minerva is _livid."_  
  
Harry grinned with the memory, and Ginny did wish she had been awake to see a small, third-rate ministry official reprimanded by Minerva McGonagall. 

  
"She made them listen for hours as she told them your whole story," Harry told them with a grin. "She screamed at them about how they couldn’t be bothered to come and properly investigate the school when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and children were in danger, but they were more than willing to prosecute a person who was unaware of her own danger for many years. It’s was quite impressive, to be honest.”  
  
“Not exactly comforting,” Ginny growled through gritted teeth.  
  
Blaise was breathing hard beside her, clearly angry about something. “Potter,” he said suddenly. “Is she going to be okay?”  
  
“Minerva?” Harry replied confused. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be fine…"  
  
Blaise glared at him sharply and Harry faltered.  
  
"Oh. Ginny. Yeah, Ginny should be great. Ginny…" He glanced at her seriously. "Ginny, you should be better. Actually _better_ .”  
  
She studied him for a moment and opened her mouth to answer, but found her eyes were swimming with tears instead. Blaise’s grip tightened, and Harry smiled.  
  
“Yeah, I know. But it’s true,” he said. “Just in time, by the looks of things. You’ve got a _much better first date_ to go on.” He glanced at Blaise significantly, who chuckled lightly. Harry stood up with the clear intention of leaving.  
  
“Hare,” Ginny called. He paused and turned to look at her. She dropped Blaise’s hand and dashed over to him, folding him into her arms. He gripped her lightly and hugged her close. “I love you,” she murmured. “I love you and I think you should call Ivy.”  
  
“What?” he replied sharply. “Why?”  
  
“Just… call it a hunch, okay?” Ginny said, drawing back and letting her arms fall. “Just do it, you stubborn arse.”  
  
“Ah yes, there you have it,” Harry laughed. “She’s fine, Blaise. Good luck with that.”

She sent a well-timed Bat Bogey at his retreating form. 

━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━

Ginny took the rest of the season off; she stayed at Hogwarts for a few more months, sleeping through the night and enjoying sunny afternoons on the grounds, She helped Blaise tend to an extra pumpkin patch she'd inexplicably convinced him to plant. She stopped pretending she was fine and told him about every sordid nightmare of her youth. She discovered his fears were similar to her own. He was slow to open up, hard to read, restrained. He was _still_ the exact opposite of Harry.

He was made for her.

When summer hit and the letter from the Ministry finally arrived, she barely noticed; the castle was empty of students, and like a small child leaving camp, she was faced with the reality of having to return home. She said goodbye to all the teachers who remained in Scotland and clutched the parchment with Blaise’s summer address tightly in her hand all the way to the train. Nothing had prepared her for leaving a Hogwarts that felt like home for the first time ever.

* * *

_Epilogue_

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.  
\- Les Miserables  


She landed firmly on both feet, not a wobble in sight. She'd always been an expert at Apparating, ever since her first attempt with the hoop. It was that same precision that made her an excellent chaser, and a decent seeker in a pinch.

It was also that precision that made her bust into a full out, belly laugh as she realised where she had landed. She was still laughing as she saw the curtains twitch, and as Blaise opened the door and stepped outside.

“Ginevra?” he said cautiously, shielding his eyes from the sun and stepping forward.

“I'm not supposed to be here,” she laughed up at him.

“Well, I mean I wasn't expecting you, but you know you're always welcome to just—”

“No no,” she interrupted. “I'm literally not supposed to be _here._ I was aiming for the Ministry.”

Blaise stared at her a moment longer, looking slightly concerned that she was still laughing, but as she continued her now breathless chuckle, she saw the corner of his mouth quirk up.

“The great Ginny Weasley messing up her Three D’s? Gasp. You'll be stripped of your medal,” he said, shaking his head at her in mock horror.

And in that one stupid joke, she knew. She knew what she’d suspected the minute kissed him the night in the forest. It was the answer to a question she’d been asking of herself, of the universe, once leaving school. She didn't need to figure anything else out right now, but she did need to _know_. She assumed it was also the reason for her mis-landing.

“You know what, Blaise Zabini?” she said, sobering slightly and not making a move towards him. “You are the boy I'm going to marry. But we can discuss that later. Right now, I'm going to be so late for my hearing. The MLE is not the most forgiving, you know.”

With a salacious wink and a small wave, she Disapparated, leaving Blaise confused and stunned into silence.

Just as she liked to leave him.


End file.
